


Fire-Eyed Maide of Smoky War

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe, American Civil War, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12366543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: August 9, 1862. American Civil War.Confederate nurse Claudia Phantomhive stumbles upon a silvery haired Union solider who has a terrible sense of timing and a rather dreadful opening one-liner.(“And you will not provoke me to anger.” His very pretty nurse smiles though the Undertaker has a rather bizarre feeling that she might be ready to stab him herself. “After all, I can shoot straight if I don’t have to shoot too far.”)Undertaker x Claudia





	Fire-Eyed Maide of Smoky War

He wakes up, disoriented and half-dazed in a small cot that isn’t two feet away from the next sorry son of a bitch, bandages wrapped around his face and limbs aching. The smell of burnt human flesh, whiskey, and sweat mingles with the roaring heat of summer as nurses in heavy skirts rush to and fro with sick and dying soldiers laying line by line. The dull tan canopy blocks out the sun but not much else and the Undertaker is fairly sure this _isn’t_ the frigid North for two simple reasons: the first being that he’s surrounded by a sea of grey uniformed men with yellow sashes—though they look more like living corpses than the Confederate’s proud gentry. Second, the Undertaker notices, is the soft croon of Southern accents shifting around him, carrying over arches of conversation and the scent of faded magnolias. 

“So you’re finally up are you?”

The Undertaker nearly jerks upright before remembering he’s got broken bones and bloodied bandages keeping him in place. Instead, he grins. “Well _yes,_ ” he chuckles, one hazy green eye opening to locate the source of this strange woman’s voice. “Fine rest I had—morphine?”

“Not at all,” the amused, feminine voice continues and he hears the swish of skirts—sharp, almost like silk—before cool hands are pressing a wash cloth to his forehead. “You passed out after telling me the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“Did I? Doesn’t sound like me.” The Undertaker muses with an airy sort of delight. “I’m _hysterical,_ honestly I am. You need to see me on a good day.”

“If this is what the Union’s capable of then darling, it’s no wonder you’ve been suffering losses left and right.” She replies tartly, finally moving into the Undertaker’s line of sight.

And _goodness,_ isn’t she a pretty little thing he laughs silently, mouth splitting open in a curious smile. This woman— _lady, southern belle, warrior-maiden of the Southern front_ —is all cerulean eyed and pale, creamy skin. Her hands are methodical and swift, as if she’s done this a hundred times for other bereft soldiers that the Undertaker doesn’t particularly care for.

What a pretty, proper English rose.

“Stop ogling me like that,” she bends down, her heavy cobalt hair tickling his exposed cheek, “just because I didn’t let you rot in the field with the other corpses doesn’t mean I can’t shoot you now.”

 _Oh-ho,_ he smirks, _she knows does she?_

“You saved the life of a Union solider, lovey,” he chuckles, “don’t be surprised when we’re both on the chopping block.”

“Yes, well, haven’t you heard? We Southerners know the meaning of hospitality.”

“And us Northmen are barbarians and fiends, eh?” There’s a wicked quality to his voice now and his medical companion doesn’t seem to like it. Her eyes narrow and her full lips purse, as if in close observation. (Yet even with her critical gaze and mild annoyance, he is not deterred—if anything, he thinks he likes her all the more. His pretty porcelain doll.)

They stare at each other for a few measures more because the Undertaker has never claimed to be a gentleman and his Confederate nurse (though she talks with a touch of silver in her voice) is hardly a lady.

At last however, she heaves a sigh, hands coming to replace his bandages. “Thank god you’re not boring,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for the Undertaker to hear.

“My, my—a proper southern belle using the lord’s name in vain? For shame!” He cackles, not even caring when she purposely prods his open wound with more force than necessary. “Blasphemy I say—blasphemy all around! You, my dear, are a curious little hellcat aren’t you?”

“Oh hush up,” she unties the bandages around his chest, “you’re making very little sense at the moment.”

“Why yes I am.” He gives her a charming smile. “I’m insulting your countrymen.”

“And isn’t that a clever thing to do,” she produces a pair of cutting shears from behind her, “especially when a Confederate nurse’s got scissors in her hands.”

“Oh you won’t hurt me lovey.” He returns carelessly. The Virginian who’d shot him barely managed to graze his chest though that, apparently, was enough to reopen an old wound he never bothered to properly stitch up. “I’m fairly certain you aren’t even married.”

“What’s my being married got to do with anything?” She looks put out, this elegant lady of baring who really has no reason to be stuck in a camp as desolate as this.

He pretends to think a moment before meeting her eyes and deciding that sentiment would have a place in his heart—if only for this moment in time. “Well,” he finally drawls, “it’s not that I _know,_ lovey—more like…superior intuition.”

“Well aren’t we a precious bundle of self-conceited joy.” His nurse uncoils a roll of clean linen before bending down to place several colorful jars on a nearby nightstand.

“Is that ointment?” He asks curiously. “I’ve never used ointment before.”

She gives him an odd look. "What do you use to clean your wound?”

“Yarrow. Sometimes calendula—plantains if I’m desperate.” Then, without warning, the Undertaker raises his head, urging his nurse to lean a little closer. “I’m unethical—stole these supplies off Confederate soldiers.”

She arches a brow, looking very pretty even as a bead of sweat appears on her forehead. “Well that’s very fine indeed.” She sighs at last. “You’re a rather hopeless fellow aren’t you?”

“Say, are you one of those southern belles I keep hearing so much about? You don’t sound like one.”

“I don’t like simpering—though I can’t possibly fathom why you’ve decided to tell me all this. I’m a bit of an oddity around these parts and wouldn’t feel much remorse in ridding the field of another Union solider.”

“Oh you _would_ —and you know why? Because I’m interesting and this lot here,” he raises one hand to gesture around them, “act like the dead and dying.”

“These are the dead and dying.” His nurse returns flatly but there’s no real animosity in her voice. She even keeps her hands gentle as she cuts through his ruined bandages and the Undertaker notices how his blood’s soaked right through the clean white linens.

“Oh dear,” he sighs with a hint of melancholy, “I’ve been brutalized haven’t I?” His voice is so theatrically mournful that his nurse and companion has to turn away, disguising her laugh with a cough. “And it appears that I’m far too grotesque for the eyes of a pretty lady! You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pistol would you, dearie?” 

“I shan’t dignify you with an answer.” She applies a warm compound to his chest, mopping away the dried blood. “You’ve killed enough people for today. No guns. No pistols.”

“You’re not very much fun.”

“And you will not provoke me to anger.” His very pretty nurse smiles though the Undertaker has a rather bizarre feeling that she might be ready to stab him herself. “After all, I can shoot straight if I don’t have to shoot too far.”

She pauses then, allowing the insinuation to permeate the air. Her teal eyes are steely and his bright green ones are curious because she’s such a pretty little magnolia doll with her hands covered in the blood of her countrymen and now, her enemy. _I can shoot straight if I don’t have to shoot too far._

 _Oh,_ she says this so matter-of-factly and with such ferocity that the Undertaker closes his eyes…and _laughs._

He laughs and laughs, doing his best not to jostle his right side and split wound but it can’t be helped. And really, it isn’t _his_ fault that she’s so terribly, wretchedly amusing—especially for a Southern girl! _My, my,_ he thinks through a fog of laughter, _I might just have to keep her._

 

* * *

 

(“And by the way, lovely,” the Undertaker begins, “what was that jape I told you earlier?”

“You asked if I might have run away with you after you regained control of your legs.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” She sniffs. “Terrible, wretched mummery—the whole thing.”

He stills, looking contemplative for half a second with his deathly pale skin and strange, silver hair. “Does that mean you agree?”

“Keep still or you’ll ruin my stitches!”

The Undertaker stops moving. “Alright. Now, to the matter at hand—“

“No.”

At her abrupt answer, he almost looks put out—like a child who had just been denied their favorite ration of gum drops. “That’s bitterly disappointing.”

“Yes,” she smiles, “isn’t it just?”

“La belle dame sans merci,” he toasts with a hint of mockery and is almost satisfied when she laughs—a bell-beat sound reminiscent of swans and distant autumn days.)

**Author's Note:**

> \- "I can shoot straight..." - yes, oh yes this was a direct reference to 1939's sweeping Civil War epic, Gone With The Wind.
> 
> \- "La belle dame sans merci" - an English ballad written by John Keats in 1819 about a destructively beautiful lady and the unfortunate knight who falls in love with her. 
> 
> \- "...a bell-beat sound of swans and distant autumn days" - references W.B. Yeats 'The Wild Swans at Coole' - a reference to advancing age and romantic rejection. 
> 
> A/N: My Undertaker/Claudia feels got me. They done got me. (Yana, please, when are we going to see this magnificent woman's face??!)
> 
> Reviews appreciated :)


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